


Chasing Marigolds

by winterisakiller (sparkinside)



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: AU, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, cross-posted to Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29199252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkinside/pseuds/winterisakiller
Summary: Marigold Randall was content to live a quiet life. She had the small bookshop and it’s tiny attached flat in North London she inherited from her grandfather and her scruffy grey cat, Dougal. It was all she’d ever needed until one afternoon a tall, scruffy man entered her shop and turned her world on its axis.Tom Hiddleston was tired. After years spent living out of a suitcase, bouncing from film set to film set and press tour to press tour, he was in desperate need of a break. And when the chance to return home for several months arises, he grabs it with both hands. While wandering the streets near his home, he stumbles across a small bookshop and drawn, he wanders inside. But what he finds inside will change his life in ways he never expected.
Relationships: Tom Hiddleston/Marigold Randall(OFC), Tom Hiddleston/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 50





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> So this story came from the title sent to me by the lovely @lettalady for the ‘send me a title and I’ll write you a summary’ game last September. After coming up with the summary I couldn’t let the idea of this story go, so I plotted out the major arc I wanted to take. But after doing so the idea kind of...dwindled until a few weeks back when Marigold decided she had things to say and thus this story got a new lease on life. Thanks a million to @ciaodarknessmyheart for letting me rant at you about this story and listening to all the random bits of background information that will (probably) never make it into the story proper. And an enormous thank you to @evieplease for acting as unofficial beta/editor for this story. You are amazing and I appreciate you more than I can properly say.

There were few things more comforting than a nice, steaming cup of tea if you asked Marigold Randall. Especially after a trying morning. And it had been nothing if not a trying morning. An aggrieved woman affronted at the fact that they didn’t have the latest _Fifty Shades_ book (Marigold steadfastly refused to refer to them as _novels_ ), followed by a tense half an hour on the phone with her shippers as the order she’d expected two days before _still_ hadn’t arrived, and the usual bunch of tourists milling around complaining about the stock. Not to mention the inventory count that needed sorting that evening. Marigold sighed at that, knowing she’d put it off as long as she could. She was tired, more than a touch cranky, and in desperate need of a break. How was it only five past noon?

It had been a blessing to flip the ‘Closed for Lunch’ sign and disappear in the backroom. The electric kettle steamed steadily as the water within came to a rolling boil. A splash of milk and a strainer full of English Breakfast had her chipped ‘I’m just here for the tea’ mug ready to go. The ritual of it was nearly as soothing as the tea itself, a throwback to childhood when all her ails could be cured with a cuppa and her mum’s loving embrace.

Marigold allowed her mind to wander as the tea steeped. She’d been the sole owner/operator of _The Blank Page_ since her grandfather’s death five years before. It wasn’t a large shop, nor a particularly trendy one. Focusing primarily on second hand and hard to find books, the shop had done a fairly decent trade in the small, North London neighborhood it had been located in for the last forty-odd years. Started by Laurence Randall shortly after the loss of his wife, _The Blank Page_ had grown steadily as the years passed. Marigold had spent many a summer and school holiday in her youth helping run the shop, everything from sorting and stacking shelves to running the till.

A bibliophile at heart, she’d never felt more at home nor at ease than she did at _The Blank Page_. Once she’d graduated university with a degree in Literature that her parents warned she’d never actually be able to use, Marigold gladly accepted the assistant position offered her by her grandfather. It wasn’t a glamourous job by half, but it was one she adored. And in it, she thrived.

Laurence was a shrewd but strangely whimsical business man and under his watchful care, _The Blank Page_ had flourished despite challenges, setbacks, and recessions. He’d embraced change that he could understand and thus had been lamentably ignorant of anything to do with the internet. Being a primarily brick and mortar business, Laurence had scoffed when Marigold mentioned the idea of online sales as a way to bolster sales and ensure the shop’s future.

It had taken time and not a few clashes of will before Laurence could admit that possibly his granddaughter had been on to something. With a steadiness that he couldn’t begin to fathom, the online side of _The Blank Page_ ’s business began to boom. Soon enough it was all he and Marigold could do to keep pace with the influx of orders that continued to come their way. They’d had to hire on two part time workers (mainly students needing a bit of supplemental income) to help handle orders as they came in, freeing both Laurence and Marigold to run the storefront and manage the hundreds of other small tasks that needed doing around the shop. It also gave Marigold the ability to fulfill the teaching requirements she’d taken on to help cover her bills and rent.

She’d loved teaching, despite her initial wariness. It certainly had the tendency to be draining. But at least at the University level, most of the students in her lectures had a keen interest in literature. It wasn’t something she’d thought about doing full time nor something she’d been actively pursuing but when the opportunity fell in her lap, she couldn’t ignore it. As much as she loved running the shop with her grandfather, it wasn’t enough to truly keep her afloat. So she’d stuck with it, teaching two classes a term and spending the majority of her free time juggling grading assignments and working at the shop.

When it had become clear that Laurence’s health had declined to the point he would no longer be able to manage _The Blank Page_ , even with Marigold’s help, she’d taken a more active role in the process. It was something Laurence had been steadily training her for and, while daunting, Marigold shouldered the addition responsibility better than she’d expected. When he passed nearly a year later and left both the shop and its attached flat to her, something he’d said he’d planned on doing since she was out of university (though at the time she’d not fully taken him seriously; he’d been healthy as a horse and the idea of his passing seemed like such a remote thing. Eventual but not something she needed to worry herself over just then), Marigold had known she would do her level best to keep the shop going, no matter the cost.

She’d let go of the place she’d been letting in Kentish Town with Mollie, a friend from her Uni days, and Mollie’s partner Patrick and settled in the flat directly above _The Blank Page_. While it was technically a good deal smaller than the one she’d left, when it came to commute time and no longer having to pay rent, it was well worth it. And, honestly, it was nice having a place that was thoroughly her own, though she would miss Mollie’s late-night chats and ridiculous stories. Not to mentions Patrick’s fabulous cooking. But it was nice, all the same.

It had taken awhile for the flat to feel like home; to get used to the fact that her grandfather was gone and that his legacy now lived through her. There were many frustrated nights where she wondered if maybe she’d bitten off more than she could manage on her own. As it was she’d had to take on a part time manager so that the shop could be covered while she taught and to honestly grant her a break every once in a while. Most days she was the sole person running the main shop (with Adam in back for a few hours a day sorting online orders) and with a slow but steady thrum of foot traffic, it was more or less manageable. Around the holidays and the occasional weekend, she would need to call in Nancy to help keep up with the increase in foot traffic.

Sighing, she cupped the still steaming mug in her hands, letting its warmth suffuse her. She brought the mug to her lips, blowing softly and risked a cautious sip. Marigold winced slightly, still a touch too hot then. Reluctantly lowering the mug, she let her eyes wander around the small back room. Several dozen cardboard boxes lay stacked against the far wall, the latest haul from an estate sale that needed to be sorted through.

A small kitchenette took up much of the wall to her left, its countertop cluttered with kettle, tins of tea, and a small stack of communal mugs. To the right lay a small hallway which led to the front of the store and her tiny, cramped office as well as the staircase up to her flat. Realistically, knew she could potentially downsize and put the money she saved from that into the online side of the business (which was where the vast majority of the store’s revenue was generated). But the idea of selling the shop that had meant so much to her grandfather, and to her, was one she refused to think on.

When Laurence had left her _The Blank Page_ , she’d known it was not only because of the time and effort she’d invested in it but because he trusted her with what had become his heart and soul. Laurence never once considered selling, despite the offers she knew he’d received regularly (the property the shop sat on alone was worth quite a pretty penny and if redeveloped could be worth even more). Even when his health had begun to fail, he’d been steadfast in his refusal to sell. And even in the days and weeks after his passing, when trying to figure out how to balance the running of the shop completely on her own with her work as an adjunct junior Professor of Literature and with the overwhelming grief at the loss of one of the most important people in her world, she hadn’t entertained the idea of selling. Yes, it probably would have been the smarter move, but the idea of doing so when she’d known how much _The Blank Page_ had meant to him and how much it still meant to her had been abhorrent. 

There were days (honestly ones much like this one was shaping up to be) where she questioned if she’d made the right choice five years ago. Days when the shop was more a millstone around her neck than a place she loved dearly. But despite it all, Marigold doubted she’d do anything differently had she been given the chance. Even if it meant more than a few silver hairs mixed in with the mass of coppery red she’d inherited from her mother. Said mass was currently piled haphazardly atop her head, though more than a few tendrils had fallen to curl around her face. She really did need to go for a trim sooner rather than later. 

_One more thing to add to the growing list_ , she thought, shaking her head. She took her time finishing her tea, savoring the warmth and comfort of it. The grumbling from her stomach reminded her that breakfast had been a long time ago and the biscuits she’d nibbled on were simply not going to cut it. The salad she’d brought for lunch waiting in the small refrigerator didn’t hold much appeal and Marigold pondered if it would be worth it to pop out to the corner café and grab a sandwich.

Draining the last mouthful of her tea with decision, Marigold pushed herself up to her feet and went to grab her bag from its hook behind the back room door.

※※※

The weather was mild for late January and surprisingly sunny, making the short walk from _The Blank Page_ to _Pestle & Mortar_ less of a horror than Marigold had feared it would be. Still, she was grateful to duck inside the warmth of the café, surrounded at once by the scent of fresh coffee and warm bread. It wasn’t a terribly fancy shop, especially for the area, but the food was warm and fresh and the Ethel, the woman who’d run it for as long as Marigold could remember, was a joy to talk with.

Ordering her usual (a toasted tomato and mozzarella panini, which in her humble opinion was to _die_ for), Marigold stood to the side of the counter, chatting animatedly with Ethel as she set about preparing the sandwich. Business at the café had been booming as of late, plenty of cold tourists popping in for warmth and something delicious to chase away the chill of the day. That mixed with the locals who frequented the café on coffee runs and lunch hours kept Ethel and the three other full-time employees she’d hired running about for most of the day.

As it was, the small café was nearly packed, nearly every small table in the place was filled with chatting people. The steady hum of voices mingled with the whir of the coffee grinder and the soft music flowing from the overhead speakers. It was oddly comforting, all the noise surrounding her. Watching as everyone flitted about their daily lives, more or less oblivious to their surroundings. People watching had always been something she’d enjoyed and this was certainly one of the best places she’d found to do so. Parks were better, as a general rule (during the warmer parts of the year, Marigold would most often spend her lunch break wandering around Hampstead Heath, simply taking in the people surrounding her), but certainly not a desired option in the middle of winter.

Her eyes lingered on a young mother who was busy making silly faces at the little girl strapped into a highchair while she attempted to clean the mess that must have been the child’s lunch from her chubby face. The little girl was clearly not amused. Marigold smiled as her attention was pulled to a couple seated near the doorway, voices raising quickly into what looked to be a particularly nasty row; the dark-haired woman red faced and fuming while the lighter haired man sat stiffly, hands clearly clenched at this side. Part of her wondered just what happened to lead to such a display, mind ticking off possibilities as she tried to keep at least some of her attention on the conversation Ethel was attempting to have with her.

As her sandwich was packed, Marigold found herself half listening as Ethel rambled on about one of her regulars, whose name Marigold hadn’t caught, who’d apparently returned from the States late last month. “…Can’t believe how thin he was the last time he was in. Wouldn’t know it now. Actors are funny like that.” Ethel tsked, shaking her head as she wrapped the steaming panini in wax paper and sealed it. “Here you are, dearie. Now you stay warm out there, you hear?”

“I most certainly will,” she affirmed with a smile, reaching out to take the wrapped sandwich. The package was warm in her hand and Marigold could barely wait to open it and indulge herself in the heady combination of crusty bread, gooey mozzarella, fresh tomatoes, and fragrant basil. “Take care,” she called as she hurried her way towards the door.

The wind had picked up significantly in the time she’d been inside, causing the temperature to start dropping at an alarming rate. Marigold wrapped her coat tighter around her body as she sprinted back towards the warmth and shelter of _The Blank Page_.

She had to fumble for far longer than she’d have liked to in order to find the keys she’d hastily shoved in her coat pocket. With a small cry of victory when her fingers finally closed around the metal of her key ring, Marigold quickly found the correct key, shoved it in the lock, and turned it decisively. She closed and locked the door behind her, shrugging gratefully out of her woolen coat, slinging it over her arm as she made her way back to the back room.

Her panini was still _thankfully_ warm and she ate it with a relish, knowing she’d have to reopen the shop soon. It was nearing one in the afternoon as it was and even knowing there wouldn’t be a great deal of foot traffic with the weather turning colder by the moment, Marigold knew she shouldn’t linger much longer. With a sigh, she polished off the last few bites and made quick work of tidying the small table. By five past one, she was back in the storefront, door unlatched once more, and the ‘open’ sign flipped back around.

Adam arrived at quarter after three in order to prep the online orders that were to be shipped out the next morning. Her head had raised automatically at the sound of the bell, and she smiled at the sight of him. There had been a small handful of people who’d browsed around the shop since she’d finished her lunch hour, coming up to the counter to ask after this or that book. And in one case, directions to the nearest _Waterstones_ which both annoyed and amused Marigold though her smile never faded as she pointed the heavily bundled man in the right direction (half tempted as she was to send him in the completely wrong one). But as the afternoon had worn on the traffic had slowed to a crawl. His face had been the first she’d seen in nearly an hour, the cold seeming to keep the usual foot traffic at bay.

Marigold greeted the young man warmly as he shrugged out of his thick winter coat, draping it over his arm. He was in his final year at uni and had been working part time at _The Blank Page_ for the past several years. Energetic and studious, Adam fit easily into the quiet bustle of the shop. “Still freezing out?”

He nodded, a shiver running through him. “I swear its dropped a good ten degrees out there since this morning. And here I thought it was supposed to be warming up today.”

“That’s what they’d been swearing for the last week,” Marigold answered with a laugh. “…And to be fair, it was warmer this morning.”

“Pity it didn’t last.” Adam paused and glanced around the shop. “Anything you need me to help you with out here before I go back and disappear in the never-ending pile of shipping?”

Marigold shook her head. “Not really. It’s been dead quiet the last hour or so. And with the way the weather’s changing, I don’t see that changing any time soon. I should be right as rain out here. But I’ll shout you if that changes.”

“Righto.” He offered her a cheery wave followed by a cheeky salute before turning on his heel jogging the rest of the way towards the back room.

“Charming,” she called after him, barely able to disguise the snort of laughter that had erupted from her.

“I do my best,” came his shout from the back.

Marigold rolled her eyes but refrained from echoing the retort sitting on the tip of her tongue. _You are his boss,_ she reminded herself. _You have to at least appear to be the mature one._ Shaking her head, she returned her focus to the stack of receipts before her. _Might as well get some work done while I can_. _Besides, there could be a line of people out the door in half an hour_. She chuckled to herself and sighed _…And then maybe pigs will fly and I can retire a millionaire_.

Her eyes darted to the closed and silent main door, quietly willing it to open. When several minutes passed with nary a tinkle of the bell, Marigold sighed and turned her attention back to the papers set in front of her. It looked as though it would be a very long, and boring evening. _Plenty of time for paperwork though._ A flicker of movement through the glass caught her attention. Her eyes darted upwards towards the door once again.

She watched a man jog by, his coat wrapped tightly around himself, head down against the wind as it rippled through his short, dark hair, focused on god knows what. As he passed the doorway, his face turned towards the door and his pace slowed. There was something oddly familiar about him, though Marigold couldn’t put her finger on just what or why. But just as quickly as he paused, he was gone. With his passing the pavements outside where once again empty.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to [evieplease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evieplease) for being my unofficial beta in this story and helping me with the difficult task of cutting and pruning this chapter. You've made it a much tighter and better chapter overall, so thank you.

Marigold yawned as she climbed the staircase which led up to her small flat, rifling in her pocket for her keys. It was nearing midnight and all she wanted to do was collapse in her bed and sleep for at least the next several years. She’d locked the shop’s main door at half past seven and after counting and locking the till, had wandered to the back room to get started on sorting through the latest round of inventory. Why she’d put it off so long, Marigold didn’t know. It wasn’t as if avoiding the task ever made it any easier. She’d sighed as her eyes fell on the stacks of boxes she was set to sort through. The latest haul from an estate sale.

It was how she’d come to find many of the books _The Blank Page_ sold; a process she’d learned from her grandfather. “You never know the treasures you can find in a load of what other people consider rubbish,” he’d admonished as they’d trudged through yet another set of boxes. Marigold had been seventeen at the time and, tired from a third early morning’s start in as many days, nodded politely grateful for the chance to bound with her grandfather but longing for a few hours more sleep.

Estate sales yielded the best luck, she’d found, though she’d had some success in recent years with boot sales, jumble sales and the occasional clear out at a local university or library. The estate sale she’d attended a week and a half prior seemed at least vaguely promising. It had been an older home, on the outskirts of the city, that hadn’t been sorted through in years with a library jam-packed with books of every sort. She’d bought several of the boxes after quick rummage through their contents yielded several well-maintained leather-bound volumes. It was a risk, but one she’d taken often enough to know there would be at least something decent in the lot.

So, she’d set to work. Hauling one of the wooden chairs from the table over to the far corner of the room she’d settled herself on it, bending over to slice through the tape that sealed the box sitting before her. The warm scent of leather and old paper flooded her senses as she folded back the cardboard flaps of the box. It was a comforting scent, reminding her of the many hours she’d spent sitting beside her grandfather doing this exact thing. The way he’d smile and laugh when he’d uncovered a particularly valuable book, the joy radiating from him when she’d done the same.

There was something wonderfully thrilling about opening one of these sorts of boxes; not knowing exactly what would be found within. More than a touch daunting as well. She, and her grandfather before her, had found just as many, if not more, duds than they had ever found treasures. Still, the tradition of it held a special place in her heart.

When she’d next blinked up at the old clock hanging on the wall it was nearing quarter past eleven. A soft string of curses fell from her lips. How the devil had it gotten so late? True, she’d started this mess a touch later than she’d planned, but still normally she had a better grip on time. Groaning, she pushed herself up to her feet, surveying the stacks of unearthed books before her. Not a bad haul, over all. A few books that would certainly be worth a good sum and others that, while not inherently valuable, would most likely sell well enough.

It took another twenty minutes to get everything sorted away. The books were arranged in neat piles and the boxes broken down, ready to be taken out back in the morning. She’d focus on getting things shelved and listed on the website later the following afternoon. As it was, she would have to be up far earlier than she’d like if she had any hope of making it to her morning lecture on time. Grabbing her bag from its resting place she’d turned off the overhead lit and felt her way towards the back staircase and home.

It took what felt like ages to pull the small ring of keys from her pocket, how she lost them in it, Marigold couldn’t understand. With a firm hand, she slid the key into the lock, turning it swiftly and pushing the door open. Light from the hallway flooded into the darkened room, broken by her shadow as she stepped inside. Groping with her hand, she hit the light switch, bathing the room in soft, warm light. She shoved the door closed behind her, turning to bolt it shut and hang her ring of keys on the hook to her right. She hung the strap of her bag on the hall tree to her left.

A soft meow echoed from behind her and Marigold turned to find a pair of wide, pleading golden eyes staring guilelessly back at her. “And I guess you’re here to tell me you’re starving to death, eh?”

The large, grey cat meowed again, twitching its fluffy tail against the dark, wooden floorboards before turning and padding quickly through the darkened doorway that led into the kitchen. Sighing, Marigold followed. She was greeted by another meow, this one a good deal louder in volume. The cat nudged at its nearly empty bowl, meowing pitifully before looking up with pleading eyes.

“You are the most dramatic creature, Dougal. You know that, right?”

Dougal meowed again, ears twitching in what she took as agreement.

His bright eyes flicked first at his bowl then back at her. Marigold laughed, shaking her head. She reached, reflexively, for the light switch, hitting it and flooding the kitchen in a soft, warm glow. It wasn’t a terribly large kitchen, narrow and laid out in a galley style. The darkened hardwood of the hallway carried into the room, contrasting with the white of the cabinetry. The countertops were a lighter wood, a deep honey and scarred with age and use. A small refrigerator and a washer/dryer combination (her one indulgence and worth every single penny she’d had to pay to purchase and have it installed) acted as bookends to the lower cabinets on either side of the kitchen.

On the far left-hand side of the kitchen, beneath a row of white hanging cabinets, sat a deep kitchen sink. Across from that was a gas range. Robin’s egg blue subway tile acted as a backsplash, giving the small room some much needed color. A window overlooking the building behind (but letting in much needed natural light) sat on the far wall opposite the entrance. She’d placed small potted plants on the window sill (herbs and such) in hopes they’d get enough sunlight to grow and that they’d be high enough off the ground that Dougal wouldn’t bother them. So far, the gamble paid off, though she had caught the grey cat watching the ledge with a calculated eye every so often.

Marigold stepped farther into the kitchen, bent and grabbed the food bowl, barely dodging the paw that swiped at her hand. “Watch it,” she warned. Dougal meowed once more, softer and plaintive.

She ignored him, turning towards the wall cabinet on her right and pulled out the nearly empty bag of cat food. “Looks like I’m going to need to visit the shops tomorrow or you will be going hungry.” Dougal meowed, moving to rub against her leg. “Sucking up won’t get you fed any faster, my lad.” Pouring out a healthy portion into the bowl, Marigold maneuvered around the cat and placed the bowl back down onto its blue rubber mat. Once he was duly occupied, she put the bag of food back into the cabinet and went to rummage around for her own supper.

Eating this late was probably not the smartest thing, but she was starving and couldn’t find it in her to care. Opening her refrigerator, she eyed the near empty bottle of milk, various bottled condiments, and Chinese takeaway carton and sighed once more. Shopping would have to be on the top of her list tomorrow if she wanted to survive the rest of the week. Grabbing the takeaway carton, she bumped the door closed with her hip, sniffed the carton and upon finding the spicy beef and broccoli inside still safe enough for human consumption set about heating her makeshift dinner in the microwave.

※※※

Morning came, as it always seemed to after a late night, far too early. Marigold stumbled from her bed and fumbled through her morning routine (dancing around a dramatically ravenous Dougal who refused to let her tend to her own needs before his were met), far too tired to focus on much of anything. Caffeinated and dressed in a warm, dark grey, woolen tank dress, forest green cardigan, thick wooly tights, and mercifully warm and comfortable dark brown leather boots, she rushed out her door and stumbled to the Underground. 

Her eight fifteen lecture passed without comment, filled with the usual mix of sleep-deprived and caffeine dependent undergraduates. She had just enough time after to dash to one of the various coffee carts lining the pavements near the university and grab a double espresso (made with a liberal amount of cream and sugar) which she drank in her mad dash back towards the Underground and her flat. If she timed it right, she should have enough time to swing by her local and grab her weekly shopping before she needed to be settled and back in the shop to relieve Nancy.

Nancy had been a part of _The Blank Page_ family for nearly five years, hired shortly after Laurence had passed and left the shop to Marigold. After nearly five months of struggling to run the shop on her own, Marigold had given in, placing an ad in the local paper for part time managerial help. Tall, curvy, and brunette, Nancy had been one of the handful responders to the ad. A few years older than Marigold, the two got on rather well. Nancy was married to a GP with a private practice and flexible hours and they had a young daughter they both doted on fiercely. She’d worked off and on throughout her university days in various shops, including the _Waterstones_ a few blocks from her school which she had worked as a junior manager, and had a wealth of retail knowledge.

She was more than happy with a handful of hours a week and had little complaints about being on call during certain times of the year; which ended up being a very large part of the reason she’d been hired nearly on the spot.

The _Waitrose_ two blocks from her flat was relatively empty, there was something to be said about shopping late morning during the middle of the week. Marigold took no time finding the items she needed (milk, assorted fruit and veg, food for Dougal, beef mince, pasta, cereal, and eggs) plus one or two more she did not (a fresh pack of dark chocolate digestives and a Milky Bar). She paid for her purchases and hurried back towards her flat. The wind had died down some over the past hour or so but the air was still frigid, making Marigold long for the heat of her flat as she pulled her dark woolen coat tighter around her.

Relief flooded through her as the façade of _The Blank Page_ came into view and she picked up her pace, grateful to push open the glass and wooden door and feel the heat of shop envelop her. She waved briefly at Nancy, who’d sat comfortably behind the glass front counter, a book laid open before her. She was greeted in turn with a warm smile, as Nancy placed her bookmarker into the book before closing it and sliding it back into her bag.

“Cold enough out there for you?”

Marigold laughed, “Just about.” She paused adjusting strap of her purse which had slipped half way down her shoulder in her haste to make it inside to the warmth of centralized heating. “I’ll be down in a few minutes once I’ve sorted the shopping.” Marigold held up her bag of groceries in illustration.

Nancy shook her head and chuckled. “Take your time. We’ve been pretty quiet. I doubt I’ll be mobbed in the ten minutes it takes for you to get yourself sorted.”

Marigold smiled warmly. “You are a saint,” she called as she darted to the back of the store. She took the stairs up to her flat two at a time.

Dougal was there to greet her as she opened the door, large golden eyes pleading. “Absolutely not,” Marigold scolded firmly, pushing the door closed behind her with her foot. “It is far, far too early.”

Thoroughly displeased with this answer, Dougal took to rubbing himself against her legs as she tried to maneuver her way into the kitchen. He let out a soft, tentative meow. When she ignored this, he let out another meow; much louder this time and with a definite whine to it.

“Not happening, cat,” she called over her shoulder as she made her way into the kitchen. Marigold dropped the bag of groceries onto the counter and began to sort through them. Once organized, she made quick work of putting everything away all the while ignoring the pleading meows and headbutts coming from the sullen cat at her feet. Dougal was nothing if not dramatic. With the way he carried on, one would think she starved him. 

Shaking her head, Marigold made her way back into the small living room and placed the papers she’d brought home for grading onto the top of the nearest bookcase. She’d get them sorted on her desk after she closed the shop later that night. And up there they stood a better chance of being left alone than if she’d left them on the cracked leather armchair that she’d inherited from her grandfather. She’d made that mistake once and come home to a mess of papers, some torn behind hope of fixing, and had to choke back the urge to throttle Dougal. While normally a rather docile creature, Dougal had a fair bit of mischief in him. And anything paper left lying about was fair game as far as he was concerned.

At ten minutes after eleven, Marigold jogged down the stairs and through the hallway that led to the storefront. The shop was quiet, which wasn’t a terrible surprise given the time of day, and she found Nancy right where she had left her behind the counter. “Alright, I’m officially here. Anything major I should be aware of?”

Nancy shook her head, “Nah. It’s been dead quiet. Had one or two people in browsing about a half hour ago but nothing since.”

“Fair enough.” She watched Nancy grab her sweater from the back of the chair behind the counter and throw it on. “See you later. Give Harry and Kirsten a hug from me.”

“Will do. Laters.” With a wave the tall brunette disappeared down the nearest aisle heading towards the back of the shop. Marigold puttered around the shop, straightening the few shelves that had been mused as patrons looked through the various books for sale. She heard Nancy shout another goodbye as she left through the back entrance and shook her head. _Never a dull moment_.

The shop remained quiet for the next quarter hour, leaving Marigold to wander through the shelves organizing and straightening, always keeping an ear open for the bell that would signal a customer. It amazed her how books seemed to migrate around, no matter how few customers wandered the aisles. At least it gave her an excuse to wander the shop and flip through the books she found lying about. When the bell finally sounded, Marigold set aside the book she held (a well-preserved collection of poetry from the 1800’s, bound in soft green leather) and called, “Be right with you.”

Bustling to the front of the shop and plastering on her most ‘customer friendly’ smile, Marigold went to greet her newest customer, a paying one she hoped. Her smile nearly faltered into a look of startled recognition (thankfully hear years of teaching and working in the shop had taught her well how to school her reactions) as her eyes fell on the tall, lanky form of Tom Hiddleston.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [evieplease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evieplease) for helping me come up with a way to not only end this chapter (and come up with a good idea of what happens in the next), but for being a fantastic unofficial beta and putting up with my rambling and panicking.

It was funny how quickly one could forget just how cold London had the ability to be at the end of January. Tom Hiddleston pulled his dark, woolen pea coat tighter around his thin frame. He’d gained back some of the weight he’d lost to play the tragic figure of Hank Williams, but lord knows he still had a ways to go. And the chill of the day only highlighted this.

He’d had to get out of his house, at least for a small while. He was happy to be home, happy to have the chance to just _breathe_. But he’d gotten so used to moving, to running from set to set, project to project, over the past few years that the very idea of simply standing still felt…odd. He’d gone for his usual morning run, years of habit couldn’t force him from that no matter how cold it was, but still felt restless. So, he’d shrugged into the warmest coat he owned and stepped out into the bitter-cold late London morning with no destination in mind.

Twenty minutes into his walk, Tom questioned the wisdom of wandering aimlessly on such a cold and windy day. _I’m going soft_ , he thought with a chuckle. _Too much time away in warm, sunny places has utterly destroyed my tolerance._

As he turned a corner, the familiar maroon and white awning of _Pestle & Mortar_. He was down the street and through the glass door before he’d consciously decided to do so. The heady scent of fresh ground coffee and hot, sweet pasties enveloped him as the door closed swiftly behind him. It was something he would never grow tired of. The heat of the small café was blissful after the biting wind he’d come in from and he made quick work of unbuttoning his coat.

Ethel smiled warmly at him from behind the counter. She was a delightful woman, friendly and completely unfazed by the trajectory his life had taken over the last several years. In many ways she reminded him fondly of his own mother, with her no-nonsense attitude and her blatant desire to feed him whenever she saw him.

He shook his head at the fuss she’d made when he’d first gotten home; “by the Dickens boy,” she declared when he’d wandered into the café nearly a month prior, “you’re naught but skin and bone. Come on and sit down and let me see if we can fix that right up.” Between the sweets she’d shoved at him and his own mother’s fussing (he could still hear her remonstrations even now), he’d gained a fair amount of what he’d lost back.

“Can’t seem to stay away, can you?” she called as Tom made his way towards the counter.

He flashed her one of his brightest smiles. “Only so we can have these moments together, Ethel, my dear.”

She snorted a laugh, shaking her head. “One of these days, Thomas my boy, your flirtatious ways will get you in a world of trouble.”

His smile increased ever so slightly in its intensity. “But not this day.”

Ethel rolled her eyes. “You are far more trouble than you’re worth.”

Tom shrugged and laughed, rubbing his hands together in hopes friction would return some of the feeling to his numb fingers. 

“So, what will it be?”

He bit his lip as he looked up at the menu board above Ethel’s head. Coffee was a definite, he needed the heat and the caffeine desperately. But as for something sweet, there were so many options. So many wonderful choices. He was half tempted to order one of everything but knew he would sorely regret it if he did. The wafting scent of butter and cinnamon made his choice for him and he gave his order with an expectant smile.

Several minutes later with double espresso and warm cinnamon scone in hand, Tom made his way towards one of the free tables near the back of the room. It was relatively quiet in the café, only a small handful of people sat in the surrounding tables murmuring quietly to their companions or lost on their mobiles. Tom settled, stretching his long legs out beneath the polished wooden table.

He liked it here, he was rarely bothered. Most of the patrons barely gave him a second glance as they sipped and talked with one another. As much as he enjoyed the attention his rise in status career wise brought him, and lord knows he was grateful for the support, it was nice to just be one of the crowd, for even a few moments.

It wasn’t as if he was mobbed on the street, mind, but he was more than aware of the increase in whispers and stares as he made his way about the city. It was strange and surreal, all of the increased attention, but more often than not, those who approached him were kind and polite and it was no hassle at all for him to sign something or to pose for a picture. _After all,_ he had reasoned, _who knows how long it will last?_

As he sipped his coffee, Tom could feel sensation slowly returning to his hands and feet. God, it was wonderful, being warm. He broke off small bits of his scone, trying to make it last as long as he possibly could. It was delightful; warm and buttery and crumbling. He was half tempted to walk up and order another. It’s not like he wouldn’t run it off eventually. 

He polished off another scone and two more coffees by the time he’d felt warm enough to brave the cold and windy streets once more. He could feel the caffeine buzzing steadily through him and wondered if maybe he’d over done it just a touch. No matter, he’d done far worse to himself over the years.

With a cheery wave, and making certain he’d bundled himself up once again, Tom stepped out of the café and into the weak sunlight of mid-morning. The pavements were definitely busier now as people bustled their way from shop to shop, bundled against the wind and cold. 

Tom paused beneath the awning of _Pestle & Mortar_, taking care to be sure he wasn’t blocking the entrance. As much as Ethel appeared to like him, impeding her flow of customers would endear him to her not at all. He let his eyes roam over the shops surrounding the café. He wasn’t sure where he was off to next, not that he needed any set direction; the day was more or less his own. There were no meetings or phone calls with this or that producer/studio/casting director, no urgent business requiring his attention. It was a wonderfully welcome change.

He’d made it clear with his manager and his team at the start of this break that he needed actual time away. The last two years had taken quite the toll on him; constantly on the move, never settled in one place for more than a few weeks, living out of suitcases in one generic hotel room after the other. This time at home was something he’d desperately needed, even though the very idea of staying in one place for a prolonged amount of time seemed _wrong_ , somehow, and more than a little stifling.

Realizing he couldn’t very well stand around outside the café all day, (he was already getting more than a few questioning looks from passersby) Tom stepped into the bustle of the crowd. He’d only gone half a block when a familiar storefront caught his eye. He had lived in this particular neighborhood for the past several years, it was quiet but vibrant enough to keep it from being completely dull. And over those years, when he’d been able to be home for more than a few days at a time, he’d done his best to get to know the local businesses and shops. He’d always been keen on knowing the area he lived. But in all that time, somehow, he’d never managed to find his way into this particular shop.

Tom paused, staring at the faded hand painted lettering on the shop’s main window. _The Blank Page_. He could see rows of what appeared to be leather wrapped tomes lining the few shelves visible from the street. Old books. He smiled as the shop called to him, as it always did. He’d hesitated so many times by that door, always meaning to go inside but never seeming to have the time to do so.

A faint smile spread across his lips. _No time like the present._

The bell above the door chimed as he pushed it open and stepped into the dimly lit shop. He blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust to the change. It was warm inside the shop and smelled like worn leather and old paper. He never wanted to leave.

“Be right with you!” a warm, rich, feminine voice called from somewhere in the depths of the shop. And a few moments later he found himself face to face with the owner of said voice. She was tall, not quite his own height but only a scant few inches shorter than him at most. Her hair was a bright, coppery red, braided and left to hang over one shoulder. She’d dressed for the weather it seemed; a dark wool dress, green cardigan, dark tights, and well-worn leather boots. Her eyes were a vibrant green and currently nearly doubled in size, a clear indication that she’d recognized him. He braced himself internally for the resultant stammering. But she didn’t stammer. In fact, the bright smile on her rounded face barely faltered as she stepped forward and welcomed him into the shop.

Years of watching the reactions of those around him left Tom with a keen knowledge of just the way his fan base, a term he would never honestly be used to no matter how long he was in this game, responded to being in his presence. The way so many stammered and stared. Or simply rambled on about how fantastic they thought him to be. It was both flattering and a touch unnerving.

This woman, however, clearly recognized him which had plainly startled her. But she moved on from it in only a few moments, and with barely a change in her expression. Suddenly, it was as if he was just another bloke on the street. And honestly, he found that refreshing. True she wasn’t the first to do so, but it had become so rare nowadays that when he stumbled across someone who paid his _celebrity_ (again he couldn’t wrap his head fully around the idea of it) little mind it stuck with him.

“…Anything I can help you with today?”

Realizing he’d been wool gathering rather than truly paying attention to the woman standing before him, Tom flashed what he hoped was a winning smile and shook his head. “Just browsing as of now. I’ve walked past this place must be a hundred times at least in the last few years and never had the time to wander in.” He shrugged self depreciatingly, wondering why he felt the need to explain himself. “Figured today was as good a day as any.” He offered a warm smile, letting his hands come to rest at his sides

The woman blinked momentarily before clasping her hands together before her. “Excellent. Let me know if you need anything.” He felt the smile on his face widen a fraction at the almost flush of color that lightly stained her cheeks.

“Oh, I will,” he responded, realizing belatedly the flirtatious nature of his words and his tone. It had become almost second nature, the charm and the need to impress. Part of the game his career had launched him into. _Besides_ , he thought to himself as the woman turned on her heel and walked purposefully behind the counter, _she does have a lovely blush_.

Shaking his head, Tom let his attention fall back toward the full shelves that lined the store. He was grateful that his day was clear because lord knows how easily he could find himself lost in the stacks. There was something about the pull of books that enthralled him; had done for as long as he could remember. It was easy to lose himself in a book, to disappear into the worlds within them.

He’d done much less reading than he’d like in the past few years. His schedule had been far too erratic for such luxuries. He’d books aplenty at home though, all calling out to him, waiting to be read. And here he was, in this bookshop, knowing his willpower would last until the first book that caught his eye. _Oh well, still plenty of room on my shelves yet_. 

As he wandered, he let his fingers brush against the spines of the books. There was such a variety that he felt slightly overwhelmed and not a fair but giddy. Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad thing that he’d not set foot on _The Blank Page_ before today. By the look of things, this was one place that could very easily rid him of quite a substantial amount of money in a relatively short amount of time.

He paused; his attention momentarily caught by a book of 19th century poetry left lying haphazardly on a shelf. It was bound in a soft, dark green leather, its title embossed along the spine and the cover in gold, faded by age. Without thought, he plucked it from the shelf and carefully began to thumb through it.

The pages were thin but in good condition otherwise. It was clear, though that this particular volume had been read many times. He found small notations on some of the margins and several passages marked. Someone had clearly loved this book. Most telling of all was what he’d found on its title page; a handwritten dedication:

_“For my beloved Claire,_

_‘When you are old and grey and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. How many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you.’*_

_Henry”_

Tom smiled softly. There was a history to this book, he could feel it through his fingers just as much as he could see it with his eyes. He found himself wondering about this Henry and his Claire; who they were, what kind of life they had led. It was the incurable curiosity with which he’d dived into nearly every role he’d taken on, that brought these questions to mind. His need to know, to understand. It was both invigorating and damned frustrating and not something he could easily turn off.

He was half-way back down the aisle, book in hand, headed for the register before he’d been consciously aware that he’d meant to do so. He let his eyes fall to the book clutched in his hand. He wasn’t completely keen on 19th century poetry, but there was something about this book that captured him. _Besides_ , he reasoned with himself, _Emma will probably adore it_. His younger sister thoroughly loved all things poetry and had an even larger book collection than he did, which said a lot. She would be thrilled to add another to her collection, even as she cursed Tom for bringing her yet _another_ book.

Tom allowed his eyes to wander the shelves as he passed in his lazy meandering towards the front of the store, knowing he wouldn’t be able to leave with just the book in his hand. He paused by a shelf near the end of the row as a familiar name caught his eye. He’d read several of John le Carré's works over the years and had recently dived back in trying to wrap his head around the complexity that was Jonathan Pine. While he had a battered old copy of _The Night Manager_ he’d taken to carrying around as he prepared for his next production, the copy he’d spotted on the shelf was in pristine condition and in hardback. He grabbed it with without a moment’s hesitation.

She was standing behind the counter as he approached, her left hand resting against its smooth, wooden top, attention locked on the screen before her, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Tom smiled at the way she chewed her bottom lip, completely absorbed in the task before her. It was something he’d been told countless times he did when he was completely lost in a task and it was strangely amusing to see it from the other side. He found himself suddenly loath to break her concentration.

Realizing that being caught watching her if she happened to look up would be nothing short of awkward to explain, Tom gently cleared his throat. Her head shot up at the noise, eyes darting until they settled on him. She gave a minute shake of her head before smiling at him and nodding at the books in his hands. “Found a few things I see.”

“Just a few. I have to be careful or I could easily walk out with half the store,” he answered with a sheepish smile.

She laughed, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. He found the sound of it intriguing. Warm and rich and utterly genuine. “Trust me, I know the feeling…And from a business standpoint,” she continued, arms gesturing openly towards the shelves behind him, “have at it.”

Tom shook his head, laughing as well. “My library’s already nearly fit to bursting as it is, though by gods it’s tempting.”

“Fair enough. But anytime you…”

Her words were cut off by a loud and resounding crash coming from above them. Tom whirled around, his eyes shooting up to the ceiling above him, convinced he would find it caving in on them. But there was nothing there. He blinked in confusion.

A string of curses echoed from behind him. “Oh fucking, fucking, _fucking_ hell.”

Tom spun back around in enough time to see her dart from behind the counter and sprint towards the back of the store. Not pausing to think, he deposited the books onto the top of the counter and took off after her.

He wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing, or why, but something was most definitely wrong and he, for the life of him, couldn’t stand by and do nothing. _Not that it will stop Luke from murdering me if this goes pear-shaped_.

“Wait!” He called as he followed her into the backroom. She paused, clearly startled that he had followed her, on a staircase leading to the second floor. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and held it up at her. “Do you need me to call 999? Are you sure its even safe to go up there?”

“What are you even…?” She shook her head, “No, you don’t need to…I just need to make sure my flat’s not completely destroyed. And my cat… _Fuck_.” She turned back around and jogged up the stairs two at a time.

Tom swore under his breath. “At least let me help,” he called up after her. She didn’t turn around nor tell him to stop and, taking that as permission, he darted up the stairs behind her. He watched as she dug furiously in her pocket of her cardigan for what he assumed were her keys, cursing none to quietly as she nearly tripped on one of the steps as she did so. Tom had to admit he was impressed with the plethora of profanity she was putting to use; it certainly put his own to shame. By the time he’d hit the top step, she’d managed to pull the keys out of her pocket, unlock the door, and push it open.

“Oh my god, Dougal,” she screamed; a terrified, angry frustration coloring her tone. “You bloody _fucking_ bastard…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *quote from _When You Are Old_ by William Butler Yeats


End file.
